


Seeing Chris

by DaphneB



Category: Silk Stalkings
Genre: Best Friends, F/M, One Shot Collection, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5939974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaphneB/pseuds/DaphneB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written from Rita's POV as she observes Chris and, in watching him, reflects on their relationship, and her shifting sense of what that relationship is and could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I looked up from my desk just in time to see Chris bounce through the squad room doors, his trademark grin hitting me like a thunder burst of rain after a months-long drought. He was wearing the canary yellow Oxford dress shirt that I particularly like. Of course, I did buy it for him for Christmas last year. He had been so cute when he opened it, rolling his eyes and giving me his most fake, over-exaggerated smile. Now I could feel myself smiling at the memory. Three months earlier, we’d been interviewing a particularly annoying associate of David Meyers, our prime suspect in the Haverton murder. And Chris had been wearing what was, even for him, a fantastically bright yellow shirt. And the guy would not stop calling Chris “Big Bird.” It was childish and grated on my nerves. But Chris’s response just got to be funnier and funnier, and then his insistence that I not tell anyone so that he didn’t end up getting Sesame Street gag gifts from every one in the squad room was just too much. I had to do something. I think he burned the shirt that had provoked the perp. But come December, there we were opening gifts on my couch. I still had the picture I’d snapped of him opening the box hanging on my fridge. He had grumbled. But he wore it regularly. And well. Very, very well.

“Hey Lorenzo,” Sergeant Johnson called out before the doors could even finish swinging shut behind Chris. “You got a sec?”

“Always for you, my friend,” Chris said lightly, pretending like he was making a 3-pointer over Johnson’s head as he turned and walked to his desk. “Ooohhh, nothing but air. Hah!” It was an amicable jibe. The two had a long-standing basketball rivalry, playing at least once a week after work, twice if they could fit it in. Testosterone levels ran a bit high in all of their interactions, but things stayed friendly.

I couldn’t hear most of what they were saying, but I could guess the general theme: the NCAA playoff pool Johnson organized every March. Johnson showed Chris something on his computer monitor, and then the two of them starting gesturing like they were faking each other out on the court. It seemed friendly, but I sensed a certain competitive tension between them, too. When they looked back at the screen, Chris peered more closely at it. Now I could hear Chris loud and clear. “Duke? Duke?!” He made it sound like “Duke” was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard.

“Yeah, Lorenzo. Duke. Blue Devils all the way, baby. Their defense is unstoppable. They have the best record in the ACC. All. The. Way.” Now he was jabbing his forefinger close to Chris’s chest, emphasizing each word. 

“It is going to be a pleasure to take your money, my friend,” I heard Chris say as he was smiling even more broadly now. I watched him turn from Johnson’s desk, laughing. “Duke. Hah!” I caught a glimpse of him full-on for just a second. His eyes were dancing, which made them catch the light in the squad room and sparkle like fireworks. If I had been paying attention, I would have felt butterflies in my stomach take flight in response. But if anyone asked, I definitely wasn’t paying attention. Probably it was just something I ate.

I kept my eyes on him as he made his ritual morning stop at the coffee machine on his way to our desks, watched his easy manner with the other detectives as he offered hellos as he walked. I realized how much I loved this about him, his openness, his ease with these people we worked with day in and day out. 

He poured himself a mug of coffee from the half-empty carafe on the table. No milk, just coffee. And one sugar. The rest of the day, he’ll take his coffee unadorned, and unquestionably so. But this morning, like every morning, he’s going to look exactly twice at the sweetener display. One long glance, then back to the cup. Then a second quick glance before finally settling on the sugar—not Sweet –n- Low, not Stevia, just plain white sugar. I know this like I know the sun will rise tomorrow. And yet every morning, he seems to think he’s making up his mind fresh each time. Of all the endearing things he does, I think this ranks near the top for me. And yep, there it is, the quick stir, three times around, with one of the wooden stirrer sticks and a toss of the stick into the trash. Every morning. The stick disposed of, he picked up the steaming mug in his right hand, grabbed a powdered donut with his left, and had half of it in his mouth by the time he’d made the turn toward our desks and headed straight toward me. 

I smiled and gave him a little wave as he caught me watching him. 

And in return, I was rewarded with those dancing eyes again, and the ridiculous sight of him holding the donut to his mouth while also trying to grin. “Morning, Sammy,” he mumbled as he chewed the sugary goodness.

I couldn’t help it, I was laughing now.

He raised his eyebrows at me as if to ask “what?” and then popped another third of the donut in his mouth.

“Uh, Sam,” I said, and I held my hand up to my face, making like I was wiping powdered sugar off my nose. 

In response he tried, mostly ineffectually, to get the sugar off of his face while still eating the source of the mess. It was adorable, yes, and a well-deserved light-hearted moment in a job that could get dark. But if I were being completely honest, I would have to admit that I was torn between amusement at the goofy effort he was making at removing the sugar and admiration for the cut of his freshly shaven jaw line, and the intermittent tufts of hair on his head that had been turned lighter brown by the intense Florida sun. It gave him a bit of a sexy surfer look, if you ignored the work clothes. And then there was the curve of his lower lip as he licked powdered sugar from it. Why was that so deliciously distracting? As I watched him, I could feel myself getting lighter, my mood lifting. No surprise, of course. We’re best friends and partners. But damn if he didn’t make me feel good. I hadn’t realized before just how much my mood shifted when he walked into the squad room every day. I was struck by the intensity of how much I didn’t want to imagine ever having a morning without him in it. 

“Better?” He was looking at me, clearly waiting for a response. 

“Sorry?” I must have zoned out. What was he asking me?  
He drew a circle in the air around his nose with his forefinger, indicating where the offending sugar had been, and cocked an eyebrow. His eyes were locked on mine in a way that made me feel like we were the only two people in the room.

“Perfect.” And this feeling, this moment with him? That’s exactly what it was. Perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

I hate the waiting and not knowing. I hate any time Chris goes under cover or confronts a perp, and I’m not the one there beside him, protecting him. And I’ve been sitting here in this sedan, with nothing but a static-laden audio feed from the recording device Chris has hidden under his shirt to connect him to me, and to the rest of the team hidden in their vans and observation stations in a half-mile square all around this warehouse. I can hear him breathing. So far, he’s steady. 

“We’ll be there in under 10, Santos. Relax.” His voice as he winds up his call with one of the biggest drug runners in South Florida reverberates in my ear. It’s my favorite sound. Low. Sexy. Not that I’m interested in him in that way, of course. But his voice is damn sexy. Having it piped into my brain through the wireless earpiece is incredibly intimate, so much so that I realize I just tried to reach out and touch his arm as though he were here beside me in the car. “Don’t get cocky, Lorenzo,” I hear myself saying to the inside of the car. The devices we’re using don’t have two-way communication; rationally, I know he can’t hear me. But he knows I’m listening. 

And I know he knows what he’s doing. I’ve watched him go into a sting operation a hundred times, or so it seems. But this one’s different. The stakes are sky high. And I’m still pissed that he and Derrick are doing this one without me, all because of that run in with Santos way back when I was working vice. I like Derrick, but he’s a bit of a hot head. Sure, he’s a good cop, and I want to trust him with my partner’s life, but they haven’t worked together in years, not since they were young bucks fresh out of the academy. They don’t have the intuitive connection that comes from spending all day every day together. Me? I feel like I can anticipate Chris’s next move before he can. I can read every twitch of his jaw, every slight turn of his body. But Derrick? I catch myself drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and tell myself to calm down.

The two of them should be coming around the corner any moment now. I got here 15 minutes ago; right on schedule, and I saw Santos and five members of his crew walk in the side of the warehouse just as I was parking. Chris and Derrick are late. Deliberately. Apparently at the last minute they decided to make Santos sweat a bit; hoping that if they got him agitated he might start talking out of irritation; maybe spill more info that could put extra nails in his proverbial coffin. Dumb idea, but typically male. All testosterone and bluster. 

And there they are, driving the black Audi TT the narco unit was able to pull out of impound for this case. They’ve been fighting all week over who gets to drive. I hear myself let out a laugh I didn’t know was coming as I remember Chris’s indignation last night in my apartment as he was complaining about Derrick hogging the driving privileges. He had been pacing around my living room, blowing off steam. I had been trying to take him seriously, offering encouragement and advice for dealing with a macho partner. “You don’t know, Sammy, he’d said looking me straight in the eye. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

And I had just laughed at him. “Uh, Chris. How long did it take me to train you?” 

The expression on his face had been worth it. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head at the comparison. He feigned hurt innocence, but honestly, it was true. And he still had his moments of chauvinism, but fewer and fewer all the time. As I watched Chris and Derrick step out of the car, I could feel my lips still curled in a half smile, despite the tension.

I radioed Cap. “Chris and Derrick just pulled up and are walking toward the warehouse now.”

“Be ready to bust in if this thing goes south,” Cap says to me, sounding jumpy. 

“You know it, Cap.” I check my Glock. Clip’s full. Safety’s off. I set it back down on the seat beside me. For good measure, I reach down and tap the small Ruger secured at my ankle. Never hurts to have a back up in a case like this. The gun is reassuringly hard against my fingers.

Watching Chris walk into what’s supposed to be a million dollar cocaine buy, I can’t help but notice how tight his jeans are in all the right places. “Looking good, Lorenzo,” I think to myself. He’s walking with an exaggerated swagger I only ever see when he’s under cover or coming to work the morning after a particularly hot date. I used to see that swagger regularly. He seems to have lost it since things with Jillian blew up. It’s obnoxious and adorable all the same time. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed it. 

Right before he walks through the door to the warehouse, I see his eyes dart my way. It’s so subtle anyone else would have missed it; just a quick check to make sure I’m here. “I got you, Sammy.” Talking to him again; willing him to hear me. “I got your back.” I can feel my heart pumping faster. It’s the danger of the situation, I tell myself. Santos has killed three men in the last year for one infraction of his rules or another. One of those men was an undercover cop, and he’s been suspicious of Chris and Derrick from the get-go. But so far, he seems mostly willing to believe their cover story. We’re all on edge with this drug buy. But if I were being honest with myself, it’s not just the danger that has my heart skipping. It’s him. That swagger. Those eyes. Three nights in a row I’ve woken from fever dreams about those eyes. And other parts of him. I’ve been telling myself it’s the stress of the case and nothing more. But I swear to god my stomach just did a flip. “Okay, Rita. Let’s just file that away for later consideration.” Oh good, I’m talking to myself now. 

As Chris and Derrick disappear through the door, I can hear Santos’ voice through the mic under Chris’s shirt. “You’re late, cowboys.”

“Nah. We’re right on time.” It’s Derrick. 

“Don’t get cute with me.” Santos again. Close to them already; closer than he should be, I think. I can hear his voice as though he’s just inches from Chris. And I also hear a sound I can’t place. 

“Put the knife away, Santos. Let’s be grown-ups here. We hit traffic. But we’re here now and we’re ready to do business.” To the rest of the world all that will come through is the easy confidence that lives in Chris’s voice. But given where his mic is taped, I can also hear his heartbeat through my earpiece. It’s kicked up several paces. Mine, too. Santos is a sick bastard, and his pulling a knife this early in the proceedings is not a good sign. I realize I’m chewing my lip. Hoping Chris’s efforts at reason hit the right note with Santos.

“Check ‘em” is all I hear Santos say in return. He’s clearly telling his goons to frisk Chris and Derrick. They’re going in unarmed, which makes my stomach churn. But we knew Santos would check them, and if they had guns, there was a strong chance he would shoot them then and there. 

“Well, well. What’s this, Cowboy?” It’s one of the goons. 

“Derrick, what the hell man?” I hear a panic in Chris’s voice. To anyone else, it will just sound like surprise, but there’s a particular pitch I recognize. I reach for my gun. What the hell has Derrick done? Every muscle in my body is strung tight, ready to pounce. And all I can think is that if Santos doesn’t kill Derrick, I just might. “Don’t do anything stupid, Christopher” I whisper, holding my breath. “I can’t lose you.”


	3. Chapter 3

The feeling of Chris's hands kneading my shoulders was familiar and welcome. I know better than to sit at the computer for three hours without taking a break to stretch, but this cold case we were working was way more absorbing than it had any right to be. It was like I was right back in the middle of the Jasmine Hayworth case. This one wasn't as old, but it had all the makings of another tragic romance: young lovers murdered mere days after they had gotten engaged, and a bereaved family still looking for answers ten years later. The murdered couple had been just kids, really. Only 21 years old. And beautiful. They'd met in art school and had the easy confidence of youth that they could change the world through sheer force of will. I could see the passion between them in the pictures their parents and friends had provided the original detectives. And I could hear the heartbreak of their loved ones coming through the dry police reports. I'd fallen hard for these two, and I wanted to bring some peace to their families.

"Mmmm" I heard myself let out something dangerously close to a moan. I love Chris's shoulder rubs. They manage to be tender while still digging into the knots. I was still sitting at my desk, and he must have seen me trying to massage my own shoulders while I was reading because suddenly out of the corner of my eye I had seen him pop up from his desk and square himself up behind me to do the job properly. "You still got it, Lorenzo." I didn't mean that to sound quite so flirty as it came out. But damn he had talented hands.

"Why thank you. Thank you very much. And _you_ , my friend, have very tight shoulders. You need to take better care of yourself." Even though I couldn't see his face, I could hear the smile he was wearing through the lilt in his voice. Even when he was teasing me, he was taking care of me. Really, I thought to myself, Chris was the one person I could always count on to be there for me. Day or night.

"I like it better when you take care of me." It had slipped out before I'd even realized I'd had the thought. And my voice had dropped an octave in saying it, giving him more of an invitation than I'd intended. What was happening? I should tell him to stop. Yes. That's what I'm going to do. Tell him we need to get back to work. Just as soon as he finishes with that extra-tender area beneath my shoulder blade.

And before I can put my sensible decision into words, I hear my breath catch. His hand has wandered a bit further south and front, resting lightly below my right breast. It's deliciously warm, and it's sending electricity shooting straight through me. Or maybe it's his breath, millimeters from my ear, that's doing it. "You like that, Rita?" There's a huskiness in the question that I haven't heard since we had to pretend to be having sex during the George Roland sting. A huskiness that could even make me forgive having been saddled with the ridiculous undercover name Muffy.

Suddenly my heart is pounding in my ears. I roll my tongue and tilt my head ever-so-slightly toward the warmth of his breath. I know I should stand up. Walk away. But his fingers are ghosting the underside of my breast, raising gooseflesh and making my stomach somersault. I want to be firm and tell him to cut it out, but my voice is shaking when I hear myself say instead, "yes. Yes, Chris. I _like_ that."

His lips are soft on my ear as he whispers "How much do you like that?"

I'm pressing myself into him now as his hand is firmer on my breast, his thumb rolling over my now-hard nipple straining through the silk of my bra and blouse. I can feel myself melting in to his other hand that's sliding down my back, kneading as he goes. "Too much," I say. "I love the feel of your hands on me. Keep touching me, Chris."

"Uh, Rita? _Ri-ta_ …?" It's Chris's voice, but it's changed. He sounds confused. Or maybe amused. Or both. I shake my head quickly and feel his hands very much still on my shoulders, resting lightly on the outside of either one, nowhere near my throbbing parts. He's still standing behind me, but he's leaning forward a bit and tilting his head down to look at my face. "You okay there, partner?"

I'm blinking fast and I hear myself let out a half laugh, half snort. "Uh, yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" But my mind is racing as I shake my head again, clearing out the last bits of the daydream that had come out of nowhere. Seriously, where did that come from? And did I actually say any of that out loud? Please don't let me have said that out loud! He's looking at me strangely. "What?" I ask, trying to sound innocent, hoping that my dirty thoughts are nowhere visible on my face. Chris has always read me too well.

He's wearing a grin a mile wide. This can't be good. "Just worried about you, partner. You drifted out to sea there for a minute. From the look on your face, that must have been some daydream." Is he waggling his eyebrows? For Pete's sake; he is.

"I don't know what you're talking about Chris." I really wish he'd give me a clue about exactly what, if anything, I'd said. "What makes you think I was dreaming about anything? You offered me a shoulder rub. And you know I love your shoulder rubs. So thank you very much, partner." I managed to get the confidence back in my voice and remove his hands from my arms as I turned to look up at him. "Much appreciated." If he wasn't going to tell me what I'd said, I was just going to hope for the best and act like nothing had happened. Which should be easy, right? Because nothing _had_ happened.

"Well good," he said. "I was starting to think that maybe you'd changed your mind." He paused, and I could tell he wanted to say more.

"Yes?"

"What _were_ you thinking about, Sammy?" His smile was fading, starting to lose the battle with a more serious expression creeping down from his eyes. His voice actually sounded kind of worried. "You had an awfully goofy look on your face. And you were a million miles away. …. You still thinking about Eric?" Chris didn't sound jealous so much as a mix of amused and concerned. Which he didn't need to be. If there was someone who _wasn't_ filling my sexy day dreams, it was Eric Russell.

"No, Chris. It definitely wasn't Eric. I wasn't thinking about anything, really. It's just this case, you know? These kids. They were so in love. They had their whole lives ahead of them. And it was stolen from them." It wasn't a lie, exactly. I _had_ been thinking about the murdered kids at first. And then lack of sleep and too much reading about ardent young lovers had clearly sent my mind to a strange place. People day dream. And dreams are never really about the surface content right? The obvious content is just a symbol of something else. A really hot day dream about Chris wasn't really about my feelings for Chris. Was it? No. Of course not. It was obviously about the case.

Chris leaned in again and gave me one of his gentle, friendly kisses that seemed to get more of my hair than anything else. "You've got the biggest heart of anyone I know, Sammy." He squeezed my shoulder lightly again as he walked around my chair and back to his desk. There was a tenderness in his tone that filled my heart as he said it. I looked at him sitting across from me as he did day in, day out. He was as handsome and sexy as ever. But I'd always known how sexy he was; it wasn't like we hadn't affirmed our mutual appreciation for each other's physical qualities before. And as he looked at me now, he had that special sparkle in his eyes that he seemed to reserve just for me. I hope I never take that for granted. When I look at him, I see him, I mean really _see_ him: the strong man who holds me when I cry and brings me his Grandma Rose's chicken soup when I'm sick. The good man who can get a date at the drop of a hat, but who never takes advantage of the many women who desire him. The sensitive man who can read me like a book and who I regularly trust with my life. He has my heart. And he is the one person I can trust never to break it.

It's completely natural that I'd have an inappropriate day dream about Chris—my constant companion and partner in crime fighting—given our history and my recent fixation on this cold case of the tragic young lovers. But it was just a daydream. It didn't mean anything. Chris is my best friend, and I wouldn't risk his friendship for the world.

"Thanks, Sam." I smiled at him, and tried to express my gratitude for his unfailing faith in me. We were fine. We were always going to be partners and friends. And we would always be just fine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little different from the last chapter! This one could be a stand-alone piece, but I think it fits with the theme of this series pretty well, too.

“If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Chris leaned back in his chair, and opened his hands, palms up, in front of his chest. It’s a move I’ve come to think of as “let’s just spitball this wild idea.” Usually I see it when we’re stuck on a case, and he’s offering the most off-beat theory he can think of to get our thinking moving again. But it’s been a slow week for homicides in Palm Beach. I had been buried in old case files, trying to take advantage of the unexpected down time to clear out some of the backlog. I had thought Chris was doing the same. Clearly I was wrong.

 

“If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?” He threw out the question again, giving me his playful smile. Not the devilish one where I know he’s trying to pull my leg, but the delighted kid one, where he’s having such a good time and so clearly pleased with himself that I have to indulge him.

 

I just shook my head. “I have no idea, Chris.” I could hear myself laughing at him as I said it, but he didn’t elaborate. He just looked at me appraisingly. Waiting for a better answer.

 

“Are you working on some sort of forest homicide over there? Or have you been watching too many Barbara Walter’s specials?” Where was this coming from?

 

Chris lurched forward, up against his desk again, unable to contain his triumphant glee any longer. “Very funny, Sam. _I’ve_ been reading _Be the Strongest Tree in the Woods_ ,” he waved it at me, showing it off.

 

I just raised my eyebrows.

 

“It’s a leadership book, Sam. Gillian thought it was really useful when she got promoted to Head of Surgery. Said it helped her find her true leadership style and figure out how to deal with ‘pig-headed male surgeons who think God himself could learn a thing or two from them.’ And, you know, we’re both eligible for the Lieutenants exam next year. Might as well start working on our leadership development now. Get ahead of the game.”

 

“Uh huh. And what, exactly, does that have to do with being a tree, Sam?” I was enjoying this conversation. Enjoying the delight on his face, at least. Yet in the corner of my mind, I could feel myself getting irrationally annoyed. Gillian was always trying to ‘improve’ Chris. Get him to ‘better’ himself and ‘live up to his potential,’ like being a cop wasn’t good enough for her. Chris was already a strong leader. I mean sure, we can all improve. And it was great he was thinking about the Lieutenants exam and taking it seriously. We both wanted the promotion. Maybe I secretly wished I’d thought of studying up on leadership first? That it had been me who thought to share it with Chris, rather than Gillian?

 

“See Sammy, it says here,” he was holding the book open again, pointing at the page he’d been reading as though I could actually make out the words from across our desks, “that we all have different leadership styles. Each of us can be a leader in the forest, but we have different strengths—different roles to play in the forest eco-system, right? And the more we can figure out our own style and develop that style—the more we can figure out what kind of tree we are—the better we’ll be at leading others. We can’t all be oak trees, Rita. Some of us are bamboo. Some of us are pine trees.” He lowered his voice at this last option, grave sympathy oozing through. Apparently pine trees were leadership-challenged.

 

“And some of us are palm trees? High society leaders?” I interrupted, trying to make a joke.

 

Chris lowered the book to his desk and shot me a dirty look. “I know it sounds silly, Sam, but we have to take this seriously. The more we learn about our different leadership styles, the more we can impress the brass in the interview part of our Lieutenants exams. We need to both get promoted at the same time so we can stick together.” His smile widened. And my heart filled. He was still my Sam, my partner, no matter what Gillian said or did or came to mean to him.

 

“I don’t know, Chris.” I sat back and ran my hand through my hair, giving the question some real consideration now. “I’ve never really thought of myself as a tree… Maybe a jacaranda? I mean, I like jacarandas. They’re pretty. And low-maintenance.” I shrugged. I think of myself as a fairly low maintenance woman. Chris snorted.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, Sammy. That’s a good one.” His words were affirming, but his tone suggested he thought I was daft. “But it can’t just be a tree that you like, it has to be a tree that represents your personality, not just your good looks.” He winked.

 

I raised one eyebrow, but let the remark pass. I wanted to tell him this conversation was ridiculous, but since it beat reading more old case files, I humored him. “Well, what kind of tree does that book say you are, Sam?”

 

“Me? I’m a sequoia. A mighty sequoia” He might be a sequoia, but he preened like a peacock at this pronouncement.

 

“Uh huh. Why am I not surprised?”

 

“It’s true, Sam. I’m strong. I’m decisive.” He nodded his head, agreeing with himself. “And I’m cooperative.”

 

All of this **was** true, I had to admit. But I still wasn’t seeing the tree connection. “You are all of those things, Sam…. And that makes you a sequoia, huh?”

 

He gave a little shake of his head and blinked, his too-pleased-with-himself smile still brightening his face. Damn if that smile wasn’t infectious, even—or maybe especially—when he was in his most playful moods.

 

“Well, I still think I’m a jacaranda.” I gave it another try. “Or maybe a southern magnolia.” This could be fun! Southern magnolias were gorgeous trees, sturdy, welcoming—I’d seen lots of kids in parks playing under them. They provide a safe space for people to relax and enjoy themselves. That’s the kind of leader I’d like to be, and the kind of leader I think I am: someone who offers people the security and space to explore their ideas. Someone who can weather any storm and protect those around her.

 

Chris just shook his head. Obviously he had other ideas.

 

“Okay fine, Sam. What kind of tree do you think I am? What does your magic leadership book say?”

 

“Hmmm…” he was looking over the page, looking up at me, looking back to the page. Then he shook his head and sighed mock-seriously. He stroked his chin. He flipped to the next page, then back again, glancing up a few times as though **he** were a doctor making a grave diagnosis. He could be adorable when he wanted to be.

 

Finally, he nodded his head and looked me straight in the eye. “Scrub brush,” he pronounced.

 

I wadded up the paper lying on my desk and threw it at him, hitting him smack on the forehead. That just made him laugh harder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid confusion: because these are “one-shots” and not connected chapters, they don’t necessarily occur in linear time sequence. This entry is set in the first episode of Season 4 (Natural Selection, Part 1) while the previous scene would make sense somewhere mid-season 4. I’ve drafted a couple of variations on this particular scene from “Natural Selection;” here is a version that remains more faithful to the original.

“Sam…. Sammy…. Rita….” A croaking, but insistent, voice finally pierced the fog of sleep. How long had I been out? As I came to, I heard it again. “Rita?” I sat bolt upright. Chris! My eyelids felt heavier than cement, but I managed to fling them open as my heart started racing.

 

“Chris.” I was out of the cramped chair I’d slept in the last three nights before my legs were fully unfolded. I half sprinted, half fell toward the hospital bed that was holding Christopher on the other side of the room. “You’re awake.” I heard myself saying, hoping this wasn’t just another dream.

 

“Yeah, Sammy. What happened?” Chris paused to take in his surroundings, the effort of speaking even a few words clearly taking its toll on him. “How long have I been out?”

 

“Three days.” I smoothed the stray hairs off his forehead with my right hand, clutching his left hand in my own. “Deborah Bouchard shot you before I could get to you, Sam. Close range. It was bad. You needed surgery, and you lost a lot of blood…. And you needed to sleep.” It sounded better than “you flatlined and I’ve been terrified to leave your side, afraid that you’d do it again for good this time.”

 

Chris raised an eyebrow and appraised my face and clothes briefly. “And you’ve been sleeping in that chair the whole time, Sammy?”

 

I just nodded at him, smiling. Still fearing this was another dream, not really happening, I was leaning in as close as I could without hurting him. Feeling his breath as he talked made me believe he was really awake, definitely alive.

 

“You look terrible,” he croaked while grinning. Well, he tried to grin, but his smile quickly turned to a grimace. He’d had a trach tube in his throat until a few hours ago, and it clearly hurt him to talk. He was also weak and short of breath, and I could see his need to gasp for air after just a few words was worrying him, though he was trying to hide it.

 

I poked him lightly on his chest, avoiding the side where the bullet had punctured him, bouncing around enough to damage his heart, liver, and intestines. “Yeah, well, you look pretty awful yourself, mister. And, frankly, coma breath is not your sexiest.”

 

“Sorry, Sammy,” Chris said gamely, a hint of a twinkle in his eyes that were still somewhat unfocused from the pain meds. “It’s nice to see you, though. I like waking up to your face.”

 

I ran my thumb over the hand I’d been clutching, and moved my right hand down from his forehead to caress his cheek. “I’m so grateful you’re alive, Chris.” I wanted to stay strong, so I stopped talking before my voice could crack. Banter was good, and keeping the mood light was important, especially since he had a long road to recovery ahead of him. There’d be enough time for serious talk later. Still the intensity of anger and fear I’d felt watching him these past three days, lying in that bed not waking up… it shifted something inside of me. I couldn’t tell him any of that yet. Hell, I didn’t really understand yet all of what I’d been feeling these past few days. But even if the proper time for serious talks was later, I needed him to know—before we lost another second between us—how precious he is to me.

 

“I thought I’d lost you, Christopher. I was so scared I’d lost you.” I made him look at me. My thumb caressing his cheek, the beep and whirr of the hospital monitors the only other noise in the room. I was determined not to break into sobs, but I could feel my lip trembling despite my commitment to stay strong for him.

 

“Never, Sammy. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He tried to use his left arm to pull me down to his chest for an embrace, but he discovered he could barely move it. I could see the alarm quickly building in his face.

 

“It’s okay, Sammy. You just need to give yourself some time to recover….”

 

Before I could say any more, the door to the room opened and Dr. Dupree and the nurse assisting her on rounds breezed into the room. “You’re awake! Don’t move that arm! You are quite the bad patient, Mr. Lorenzo, with your dirty mind and smart mouth.” She was shaking her forefinger teasingly at him, but Chris clearly didn’t have any idea what she was talking about.

 

“You flirted shamelessly and asked out every female staff member in the recovery ward before they had to put you back under sedation.” I gave him the short, and clean, version of his ribald antics. We’re not **really** responsible for what we say under anesthesia, are we?

 

“And you’ve got quite the dedicated support staff here,” Dr. Dupree nodded vaguely in my direction as she chirped right along, keeping her eyes fixed on Chris. She was smiling in an indulgent way, her practiced high-pitched voice clearly aimed to ward off emotional outbursts and cut through lingering anesthesia fog.

 

I glanced at her quickly, annoyed that she’d interrupted us, but also grateful. Chris needed to focus on his recovery, and it was going to take me a long time to process the flood of emotions—fear, dread, sadness, love—that I had been drowning in these past few days. I hadn’t really allowed myself to feel them while we were in a holding pattern, waiting to see if Chris would live or die. And though past experience had taught me I wouldn’t be able to repress such strong emotions forever, I needed to figure things out on my own first rather than laying out a mess of tangled feelings on Chris. Especially since he was sure to have his own strong emotions to deal with on top of his physical recovery.

Moving into medical care mode was a perfect escape for the moment. But then I glanced back at Chris and, if I’m being fully honest, my own heart stopped for just a second. Chris was giving Dr. Jillian Dupree a look of wonder and rapt attention like I hadn’t seen from him in years. But I was still very familiar with what it meant. The last time he really looked like that at a woman was when he was dating Annie. And that was what? Three years ago already? He might not admit it, but I was certain Annie was the last woman he’d dated that he had truly loved. And here was that puppy dog expression again.

 

Looking at Chris looking at Jillian, I could feel the door inside me that had opened when Chris called out to me a few minutes ago blowing shut. Painfully. Forcefully. And yet. Here he was: Christopher. My Christopher. Alive. Talking. _Flirting_ with his doctor. It was a miracle. I brushed the hair off his forehead again and smiled, my heart full of wild emotion. My partner had come back to me. Everything else was details—details we could fight over in a long, long future we’d just gotten a second chance at.


	6. Old Flame

_What was it Karl Marx once said? History repeats itself. First time as tragedy, second time as farce? Here in Palm Beach we’re about as far from the red revolution as you can get—but affairs of the heart can feel like the fate of the world is at stake for the people involved. Maybe if Marx had lived long enough to write Hallmark cards, he would have appreciated the connection._

 

_++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++_

I shouldn't have been surprised when Chris opened his front door and I heard a woman's voice coming from the living room. My visit had been unannounced after all. And even though unannounced visits were standard fare between us, it's not like he owed it to me to sit around alone twiddling his thumbs just in case I showed up. But I had taken his mile-wide grin when he saw me as permission to waltz into his place like I owned it. Until I heard her voice and was so startled I stopped my forward momentum abruptly enough to almost lose my balance.

 

"Hey Sargent Sexy, are you ever coming back so I can remind you who's on top?"

 

No, I shouldn't have been surprised. And I mean, hadn't I been on the other end of this confusing scenario, shouting out a perfectly innocent-if-salacious-sounding remark of my own, not so many years ago? As I well knew, just because something sounded incriminating didn't mean it was. Except that Chris and I are simply best friends. And the last time this happened the woman at the door was very much in a relationship with Sergeant Lorenzo. And I wasn't. No, I checked myself, I definitely wasn't in a relationship with the disarmingly charming man standing not two feet in front of me.

 

So why did my stomach turn sideways when I heard that long-lost voice from Chris's storied dating past drifting toward us?

 

"Sam!" Chris chirped, tucking the basketball he was holding under his right arm while resting his left hand on my shoulder as he offered me a peck on the cheek. "What's up, partner?"

 

"You tell me," I recovered quickly—I hoped—and raised my eyebrows in playful suggestiveness as I nodded over his shoulder toward the depths of his apartment.

 

"Annie's back in town. You remember her?" Chris's eyes were dancing.

 

"Annie? Of course. How could I forget? Sorry. I didn't know. That you had company, I mean. Or that she was back. Didn't mean to interrupt," I was rambling to cover how inexplicably silly I was feeling, standing there holding a six pack and a pizza I'd brought over on a whim.

 

Chris spied the food and beer and his glee immediately turned to concern. "Did we have a date I forgot about?"

 

"No, I just dropped by…"

 

Before I could finish the sentence, Chris's beautiful, bohemian former girlfriend glided up behind him. "Rita! Hey, how are you?" She was as bubbly and warm as ever.

 

"I'm great, Annie. It's really good to see you again. How are you? Chris didn't tell me you were coming back to town." We tried to hug a friendly hello, but the large cardboard box I was holding in one hand and the glass bottles in the other made for an awkward fake-European kiss-kiss scenario that turned a mildly odd situation positively disconcerting. Or at least it did for me.

 

"I surprised him," Annie said with that gregarious grin I remembered fondly. Clearly she didn't sense—or at least didn't share—my embarrassment.

 

"Fun!" I said. Really. I actually said "fun!" I never say "fun!" Where had that come from? I could see Chris growing curious as he peeled his eyes off Annie and cast them back to me. I avoided his gaze. "Sorry to have interrupted your date. How long are you back in town?" I hoped my voice sounded lighter than it felt.

 

"For good, I think. Or at least, for the foreseeable. I'm moving back next week. I got a great offer on a showroom here. I just signed the lease and decided to make it official."

 

"Annie's clothing line has really taken off," Chris chimed in, looking more pleased than I'd seen him in a long time. His attentions were bouncing back and forth between us. Smiling at her. Nodding at me. "She's opening her own boutique here in Palm Beach and even has a line on a potential satellite store down in Miami in a few months if sales here are good." Annie had rested her hand affectionately on his shoulder and was laughing now, clearly caught up in the delight Chris was taking in her success.

 

"That's great, Annie," I said, genuinely happy for her.

 

The truth is, I'd always really liked Annie. She was authentic and smart, and had been great for Chris. She didn't let any of his caveman behavior slide. She pushed him to be more emotionally open. But she also broke his heart when she left Palm Beach to pursue her career. Still, if she really was back for good, and the mere prospect of reigniting one of the healthiest relationships he'd had since I'd met him had him beaming like this, then I was going to be happy for him.

 

"Thanks! And I'm sorry, Rita. I didn't know you two had dinner plans," Annie said, nodding at the pizza box getting colder and greasier by the second in my hand.

 

"Oh we didn't," I said a bit too eagerly. "It was just a spur of the moment thing."

 

Annie looked back and forth between me and Chris, clearly trying to suss out if things had changed since she and I had had our long talk on the beach after she'd misinterpreted my words shouted from Chris' couch—the talk where I assured her that Chris and I had no intention of screwing up a perfect friendship with sex.

 

When I caught her eye again, I just shook my head slightly. I remember that conversation, too, I was silently assuring her, and no, nothing had changed on that front.

 

Even though sometimes I got the sense that Chris was edging us in that direction. Or maybe I was projecting my own confusing and worrying impulses onto him. Or maybe I was just misreading his cues because it had been so long since I'd had a date with a man who didn't make me want to join a convent and concede to a happy (enough) spinsterhood here and now.

 

"Well there's no sense wasting good beer and pizza! Come on in and we'll catch up," Annie said as Chris smiled his agreement. It was clear that in just a few hours back in each others' company they were already settling into a comfortable routine.

 

"Some other time." I demurred. "You two need a chance to get reacquainted, I'm sure." I pushed the beer and pizza toward them in a peace offering for having interrupted their reunion. I wasn't hungry anymore anyway.

 

"Sammy… always looking out for me," Chris growled with over-exaggerated lecherousness, which had Annie play-punching him on the arm while rolling her eyes. But her lusty laugh suggested they were in for a long night at which I would definitely be an unwelcome third.

 

Chris grabbed the now lukewarm pizza and six-pack from me as he leaned in to dash another kiss on the side of my forehead. "Thanks, Sammy. You're the best."

 

I started walking backwards, waving lightly. “You two have a good night. I’ll see you soon.”

 

And with a strange emptiness I couldn’t explain, I turned back toward my sedan and tried to think of what I would do with my suddenly lonely evening. Annie was back. And I was truly happy for Chris. He’d been heartbroken when she left. And of course he’d moved on, to numerous flings and even a long-term, if ill-advised, relationship with Jillian. But the look on his face tonight made it clear that he’d never lost his soft spot for Annie. Her leaving had been his personal tragedy. Why did it feel like her return was my farce?


End file.
